The Council of Pippin
by Earendilion
Summary: What would have happened if Elrond was late for his own council? Something disastrous, no doubt. Nominated for 2007 MC Awards.


**A/N** Elrond isn't happy with me. I really do feel bad for torturing him this way, but the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. I'm actually fairly proud of myself, because this is the first time I've really used Hobbits. And it's a parody! Cheers for Pippin and his genius.

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Elrond awoke from a restful nights sleep feeling refreshed and healthy. He had gone to bed early the night before for… for one reason or another. The reason did not seem to want to come to mind, so he lay pleasantly in his bed, watching the sun dance merrily on his walls and ceiling.

It was not often that the sun did that – shone through his windows with this strength, that is. He was usually up _with_ the sun. He wondered vaguely why he had not gotten up that early this morning. He must have been tired.

Stretching luxuriously, he rose slowly, savoring the laziness of the morning. Draping his dressing robe casually around his shoulders, he shuffled to his private sitting room, knowing his favorite tea would await his presence there. Sure enough, it was sitting on the small side table, still warm. He sipped it happily, wondering why the vague feeling that he had forgotten something would not leave him.

Sugar, that was it. He had forgotten sugar.

Once he had amended this mistake, he folded himself idly into a chair, picking up the book that he had abandoned the night before. Surely there was nothing important that he needed to do this morning. It would not kill Imladris to allow its lord a morning off now and then. Surely there was nothing important….

The book was historical, his favorite. It was about a series of councils that had taken place in the First Age and how they had affected the means of negotiation and communication of the later ages. Very intriguing. Though the councils he usually attended were fairly boring and business-oriented, he was still able to appreciate the subtle way in which-

He dropped his teacup in shock, and it smashed against the stone floor, spraying tea everywhere.

He had forgotten about his own council.

The book utterly forgotten and lying with crumpled pages on the chair, he flew back to his chambers, tearing out of his nightclothes as he went. It was only after he had thrown on his robes and picked up his hair brush that he realized he had put on the robes backwards. He nearly strangled himself trying to fix them. Then he realized he had forgotten his under tunic. No one would notice that, would they?

He braided his hair so fast his fingers became entangled in the black locks, and it took him a few more precious – and painful – moments to detangle them again. Finishing the braids, though they looked oddly lopsided, he pulled his boots onto the wrong feet and ran for the door, managing to stub several toes on the way.

Swearing heavily, he sped down the hallways as though Morgoth himself were on his tail, yelling apologies to the shocked Elves he passed and nearly fatally injured. It took him mere minutes to reach the place of the council, and when he finally did, he skidded to a halt, swinging around the doorway and asphyxiating from lack of breath. But he didn't go in.

The Council had already assembled. They were not sitting, however, but were gathered in a tight circle around something he could not see. The Dwarves were stroking their beards and nodding in approval. The Elves had their eyebrows raised and looked impressed. Even Gandalf was carefully attentive, comprehension and clarity in his expression. A small voice was coming from the center of the circle.

"You see, if we just place these catapults in strategic locations, with the right timing, it's fool proof! What could go wrong?"

"It's ingenious!" a Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain rumbled.

"Amazing!" an Elf exclaimed.

"Explain it again, Pippin, lad," Bilbo requested.

Pippin?

Elrond moved forward cautiously, peering over Dwarven heads to see what they were all staring at. He choked. The Hobbit Pippin was at the center of the circle, a long pointer in his hand, a diagram spread out on the ground beside him.

"Here," he said, jabbing the pointer at a rough sketch of some sort of machinery, "is our secret weapon. A catapult."

The crowd muttered their approval.

"What we do," Pippin continued, moving his pointer across a makeshift map in illustration, "is place these catapults in carefully coordinated safe points, such as Lothlorien and Minas Tirith. The first one shall be located here, obviously. Now, if we can place the Ring in this first catapult, with the proper dynamics and logistics, we can fling it across the mountains and to Lorien, where they will place it in their catapult and send it on to the next safe point, and so on and so forth, until it reaches Mordor. From there we will be able to send it directly into the Crack of Doom. Any questions?"

Only praises of the Hobbit's brilliance met his query.

"But," Elrond spluttered, "it's… ridiculous!"  
Everyone turned as one to look at him, their expressions affronted.

"Ah, it seems you have finally made it," Gandalf said. "As you did not come, Master Peregrin kindly offered to lead the Council in your stead."

"And you allowed this?!" Elrond asked incredulously.

"Why not?" Gandalf asked. "He is rather clever. Why did you not think of something like this first, Elrond?"

"But… but…" Elrond could not quite find words to express himself. "Look at his plan! It is ridiculous! How on earth are we supposed to build one of those things? Nothing we could build could propel the Ring over the Misty Mountains! And how do we get everyone else to build one, as well? How do we know our aim is correct? What happens if we miss? Or it does not work? If it lands on top of Caradhras? How do we even get it into Mount Doom when it reaches Mordor? Who will put it in? What-"

"Elrond," Gandalf said, shaking his head with a small, pitying smile on his face, "you really must stop worrying about insignificant details. It is not good for your health."

"Good for my-"

"It is alright, Master," a kindly Dwarf at his side said, patting his arm. "We cannot always be great. Maybe it is time for you to step down and allow the next generation of brilliant minds take over."

Elrond couldn't speak. He was completely dumbstruck. He finally managed to sputter something incoherent, then, "Have you all gone mad?! Look at it! It will never work! What evils of the Enemy have you allowed into your minds?!"

"It's alright," Pippin said quietly to the insulted crowd. "He's just a little shocked at being outdone. He'll be alright."

Elrond gaped at him.

"Glorfindel," Gandalf said, "perhaps you should escort Lord Elrond back to his chambers. I do not think he is well."

Glorfindel took Elrond's arm obligingly and guided him firmly but gently out of the Council room. As he left, Elrond distinctly heard Pippin say, "He's just jealous. Now, about the construction of the catapults…"

Elrond woke up screaming.

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"What did you say happened, Pip?"

"I told you, I don't know! Master Elrond just rounded the corner, saw me, then went very pale and ran in the other direction. He didn't even bother to give me one of his funny looks."  
"That's very odd. He's usually so amiable. Maybe he ate something that didn't agree with him."

"But he seemed fine until he saw _me!_"

"Yes, well, you cannot quite blame him for that, Pippin."

"Well, I certainly don't appreciate the opinions of a _Brandybuck_, so why don't you keep them to yourself?"

"Alright, alright, but I'm only saying…"


End file.
